Although pretty much everything else in her life was, she thought ruefully.
She’d lost her job last night. Martha would never rehire her after she’d run out on her shift like a madwoman. And somehow or other she was going to have to set aside her guilt at not contacting Maxim a lot sooner and find a solution which would suit them both—without letting him steamroller her.
She drew in a breath, overwhelmed at the thought of navigating that conversation.
Maxim, being Maxim, had been forceful and demanding last night, riding roughshod over her protests and basically taking matters into his own hands—or, rather, arms. She’d been way too exhausted to object. But this morning she was going to need to start standing up for herself.
She brushed her hair back from her face. It was still early, she realised, analysing the angle of the sun over the Thames. The first order of business was to have a shower and find her clothes, then she’d be ready to face him. And ready to face the mistake she’d made not contacting him.
But she wasn’t the only one to blame for what had happened, she told herself staunchly.
She wasn’t the one who had chosen to use their night together in a cynical bid to acquire a property—the one who had been so hell-bent on revenge he had decided to throw her to the media wolves.
Maxim was not blameless in this calamity. Once she was washed and dressed, she’d be ready to point that out to him—a bit more forcefully than she had last night.
Twenty minutes later, Cara was clean and dry, her damp hair brushed. Unfortunately, she still only had the bathrobe and yesterday’s underwear to wear because she’d been unable to find her clothes. Or her shoes. Even her coat had disappeared.
Had Maxim stolen them? Or hidden them? To keep her docile and trapped in this room?
Bolstering her newfound courage, she tightened the tie on the robe and eased open the bedroom door.
Expecting him to be waiting for her in the sitting room, she let go of the breath she’d been holding as she scanned the suite’s large, luxuriously decorated lounge area and couldn’t see him anywhere.
But then a gruff sound had her gaze zeroing in on the back of the three-seater sofa facing another large picture window, which was the feature aspect of the lavish room. A pair of bare feet, long and tanned, hung over the cream silk arm of the sofa.
Maxim?
Her throat tightened as she walked round the sofa to find his tall frame stretched out on the cushions, taking up all the available space. A thin blanket covered the lower half of his body, the waistband of his boxer shorts peeking out. Her heartbeat throbbed in her throat and the weight in her stomach plunged as her greedy gaze studied him unobserved. His bare chest looked as magnificent as she remembered it, while his flat stomach rose and fell in a steady rhythm which echoed in her abdomen. There was a tuft of dark hair under one arm where he’d lifted it over his head, probably in a vain attempt to get comfortable. His usually swept-back wavy hair was ruffled, and mushed on one side, while the shadow of beard scruff covered his jaw.
She assumed most men looked less intimidating while they were asleep.
Not Maxim.
If anything, the sight of him, his body relaxed and yet no less powerful, his nakedness making him all the more compelling, was having the opposite effect.
Her breath shuddered out.
The quiet huff had his eyes snapping open. Instantly alert, his golden gaze narrowed. And she found herself taking a step back.
‘Bonjour, Cara,’ he said, clearly having no problem remembering exactly what had happened the previous evening.
He yawned and stretched then sat up, his movements indolent and yet focused.
Why did she suddenly feel as if she’d ventured into the wolf’s den? Again.
Every one of her pulse points throbbed, the edgy tension in her body intensifying as he threw off the blanket to reveal hard thighs and long legs, furred with hair. She could also see the prominent length pressing against the front of his boxers.
The weight in her stomach became hot and achy, beating a chaotic pulse in her sex.
He thrust his fingers through his hair, sweeping the silky waves back, scrubbed his hands down his face—then sent her a humourless smile.
‘Ignore it. I get one every morning. Especially if I have been dreaming of you.’
The blush climbed into her cheeks, making her feel painfully gauche. And stupidly light-headed.
What on earth was that about? She didn’t want him to dream about her... Did she?
‘Where are my clothes, Maxim?’ she blurted out, unsettled, not just by the intimacy of the moment but also her ludicrous reaction to it.